This shoved away some of the numb. "Another fire starter?"
"Yes and no. Like me but not. Fire starting's not their real, full power. It's like they were stealing the power from somewhere else. Then I felt it."
"What?"
"The draining. They stole the power from me. So you see? It really was my fault. I'm so sorry, Sam."
Tears filled his eyes and he dropped his head again to hide his pain, but it still washed over me in thoughts and feelings and images. I opened myself and let everything he thought and felt hit me. Then I took all that raw data and shoved it into a special compartment in my own mind to examine later.
I reached for Kyle's hand. "It's not your fault. Whoever did this stole your power... you can't be held responsible for that. Thank you for telling me."
He looked up with something akin to hope in his eyes. We all needed forgiveness for our sins, perceived or real. We all craved absolution, so I gave him his.
"It's okay, Kyle. I'll figure out what happened. It's not your fault. But, don't tell anyone else this, all right? At least not until I uncover the truth about that night."
A buzzing filled me, and I left him to his thoughts as I walked through the winding paths without purpose or destination. Someone had stolen another para-power and burned up my work.
Why would anyone do that? And who could possibly have that kind of power?
I needed to find out, and I needed help.
Chapter 11 – Drake
Awareness flickered in and out like pinpricks of light through a torn window curtain. Voices, footsteps, the clank of metal, the medicinal smell that permeated his dreams—these small, mundane sounds woke Drake from his unconscious visions and pulled him from the blue-eyed girl in his mind.
The thump of his heart seemed abnormally loud, and for a moment he wondered if he had died and gone to some limbo place where grey souls lived. But no, not dead—the sound belonged to a monitor attached to him, broadcasting the rhythmic beat of his heart to the world.
He focused on keeping the sound steady as he opened his eyes to take in his surroundings. The unremarkable hospital room gave him no sense of place or time.
A tickle itched his nose and he moved his arm to scratch it, only to find that he couldn't move. His limbs had been restrained to the hospital bed: two thick straps across his legs, a strap across his chest and a strap to tie down each wrist.
An I.V. dripped a viscous yellow solution into his veins and created a mild burn that ran up his arm and through his body. The door to his room was closed, so he focused his powers to surge through his muscles and free him from his prison.
Pain flashed through him like fire in his blood, and his strength abandoned him.
He lay on the bed panting, wrung out and useless. He fought, pulled, flexed, and lifted himself in an effort to overcome the effects of the drug, to no avail. His efforts won him not freedom, but rather several burns and cuts into his skin. They would heal soon enough, if the drug didn't inhibit that part of him as well.
Defeated, he relaxed into the bed and wondered how he'd let himself get caught. He should have listened to Father Patrick and Brad. He should've known he'd never be allowed to live his dreams.
These thoughts fanned the fires of his rage, but that fire had no will, no power to grow. Exhausted, Drake slept... and dreamt.
***
He sits on the bed, as still as a mouse—as still as a dead mouse, his new daddy would say. Dead mice can't move. Dead boys can't move either, so Drake doesn't move a single muscle. He doesn't want to be a dead boy.
New Daddy will be home soon. New Mommy locks herself in her room with the bottles that smell funny. She won't come out again, Drake knows. She won't help him, not like his real mommy who smelled like roses and laughed a lot, except that last night.
Real Mommy and Daddy gave lots of hugs and cuddles and let him eat ice cream on special days. They loved Drake, but they weren't strong like him, and when the car made the awful crunching sounds, and their blood got all over him, he watched as the light in their eyes faded to nothing.
They died and left him.
Now he will die if he isn't very careful. So Drake sits still and he waits.
When the front door crashes open, he inhales sharply, but doesn't make a peep. Not one. If he lies down or tries to hide, New Daddy will be even madder.
New Daddy starts shouting in the living room and throwing things against the wall. Soon, New Daddy will come to Drake's room. Soon, it will be Drake's turn.
Still, he waits.
His bedroom door flies open and New Daddy stands there, big and mean and scary and smelling like those bottles and cigarettes. "You've been a bad boy, son. It's time to take your punishment."
Drake squeezes his eyes shut and stays very quiet.
When the blows come, he doesn't make a sound.
When the fist lands on his face and the pain explodes in his head, he still doesn't move.
When it's over, he's allowed to lie down, finally.
New Daddy leaves and closes the door.